


Shaking Hands in Hell

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Dark!everyone really, F/M, Identity, In-hiding Sherlock, Moriarty was REAL, Post Reichenbach, Surprise! - Freeform, The tags sort of give it away, disguises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's been hiding for months, working his way through Jim's organisation. Tonight he's after the man in charge - but it's not as simple as it seems...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shaking Hands in Hell

He’s living in a squat by the river. The place was an office building once but now all the rooms have been taken over by the homeless and people without proper visas; criminals and invisible people, just like him. He doesn’t mind. The work is the only thing that matters.

Sherlock’s been systematically tearing his way through Moriarty’s organisation for four months now. It wasn’t enough to blow the head off the snake. Sherlock had to pull back and focus solely on the hunt; it was safer that way, for everyone. He made his way up the list to the standard middle men, the ones Moriarty used again and again. He took out the big fish. Now he’s going after Jim’s second-in-command.

Sometimes he still dreams about that pool of blood, so black, so big. But the work is more important.

 

Sherlock wants to make sure of Moran’s capture personally: he’s too slippery for the Yard. Holmes knows he’s having dinner at a place by the river that’s small without being too intimate and posh without being ludicrously trendy. He dyes his hair and straightens out the curls and looks different enough that Moran might not recognise him immediately. Then he books a table and waits.

It’s exactly what Sherlock would have expected if he was the kind of man who watched ‘80s movies, shiny black tables and chrome chairs and too much light. But there is a sense of sophistication thick in the air that wins out over the tackiness, oozing from groups of attractive people. Sherlock sits with his back to the wall, scanning the crowd for his target. He has a fair idea what to look for but the room is crowded. He spots a thin, discreet door by the kitchen and stands. The gun feels heavy in his waistband as he makes his way to the toilets. At the last second he turns and enters the inconspicuous door.

There’s a short hall with a door to the kitchen and an exit leading outside, wedged open. There’s one other door to his left and he draws his gun as he presses an ear to it. There’s a deep male rumble he recognises as Moran, followed by a woman. He waits but no one else speaks, just the same two. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock shoulders open the door and raises his weapon.

“Don't move, Moran. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

The gunman looks up slowly, face wrinkling with angry lines. Sebastian’s eyes flick from Sherlock to the woman and she nods. She smells like lilies and something sharp, almost chemical. It’s too familiar.

“Boss-”

“Wait outside, Sebastian. Sherlock, why don’t you take a seat?”

Her voice shocks him, the gun forgotten as he stares. Moran stands to let him sit and still Sherlock frowns, not moving. She turns and gives him an annoyed look.

“Don’t test me, Sherlock. Sit.”

The detective’s hit with that feeling again, the one he’d had when John stepped out of the change booth at the pool. He stares at her, trying to piece her face in with her words.

“Molly?”

 

“Take his gun on the way out please, Moran.”

The former colonel obeys, Sherlock giving no resistance as he takes the weapon and shuts the door behind him.

“Have you figured it out yet? I can see the thoughts running through your head. It’s such a turn-on you know.”

Sherlock stares at the brunette. “You were working with Moriarty the whole time.”

She laughs sincerely, heartily, in a way that makes Sherlock’s spine tingle. “No, silly. There is no Moriarty. Sit.”

He does it, more to catch his breath than because she’s asked. “I saw him pull the trigger. No one could have faked that much blood. That was Jim Moriarty.”

“Just a name I made up, really. I hired Richard to play him and he did an excellent job, didn’t he? It was a shame he had to die.”

Sherlock might have been taken by surprise but his mind is racing now. He can’t wrap his head around the words coming out of the same innocent face he’s seen a thousand times. He meets her eyes, searching for something false there and finding nothing but calm. “If you were the real Moriarty this whole time, why did you help me fake my death? Why didn’t you stop me arresting your men?”

“Boredom? Fondness? I didn’t let you get a whiff of any of my best, so you were doing me a favour really. And as for disgracing you…well, that was necessary. I had to see what you were willing to sacrifice.”

Sherlock scans her face. There’s none of the madness or whimsy he’d seen with Jim – _Richard_. Molly watches him steadily, almost adoringly, but there’s no external sign of a mind capable of tricking him, of orchestrating grand conspiracies without remorse. There’s nothing even remotely calculating.

 

“I’ve missed you, you know. Watching from a distance is never quite the same.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I can’t allow you to continue dismantling my operation. You’re the only person in the world who knows who I am and I’m the only one who knows you’re alive. So...what are we going to do about it?”

He’s silent as he runs through every conversation they’ve ever had for some clue he might have missed. But the truth is he’s deleted most of it, too prone to overlooking Molly and taking her at face value. Even now he finds it hard to believe what she says, but the cold steel in her gaze convinces him.

“What do you want?”

She looks thoughtful and slides closer, reaching out to turn his head. Molly raises a finger and strokes his jaw line. “You’ll never let this go. You’re like a terrier, too set in your ways. You won’t join me. You won’t stop hunting me. This story only ends with your death or my capture, and I don’t particularly feel like going to prison today.”

“I doubt anyone ever does.”

“Or there’s another option. I could take that beautiful brain away.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and she rubs her thumb along his brow.

“A few quick snips and you’d be a vegetable. You wouldn’t remember your own name, let alone mine. I could send you back to Dr Watson – I’m sure he’d be happy to look after you. One cut and you’d be worse off than all those average people you tormented for not being geniuses.”

The thought is horrifying, incomprehensible, but Sherlock tries to keep a straight face. “I thought you didn’t like to get your hands dirty.”

“For you I can make all kinds of exceptions.”

 “No.”

“No? Then you’d rather be dead than stupid? I don’t blame you. Pretending to be dull is annoying enough.”

“I could just walk away now.”

“You wouldn’t make it to the door.” She smiles, and her face is so sincere he believes her.

 

Sherlock looks at the woman he’d belittled and ignored and insulted in front of people for five years. She holds his fate in her hands and he has no doubt she would do exactly what she said.

“I won’t chase you.” He forces out, lips forming the words clumsily in his distaste.

“You will, Sherlock, we both know you will.”

“I won’t.”

She shakes her head slowly, sadly and he starts to feel a trace of panic. He’s never really felt it before, never been in a situation he couldn’t think his way out of. But Sherlock knows he’s finally met his equal. He’s not going to win by thought alone. He grabs Molly’s throat, squeezing gently. She doesn’t stir, her expression exactly the same. “I could kill you.”

“I know. It’s terribly exciting, isn’t it?”

She’s smiling almost daringly, watching him with hooded eyes. Sherlock thinks about it, pressing just enough that the skin reddens.

“But if you did, Sebastian would kill you.”

“Maybe it would be worth it.”

“Maybe.” There’s nothing in her voice, just calm, casual disinterest.

“There’s plenty I can do without killing you.”

“You say the most delightful things, you know?”

How could he have missed this? This other Molly? He drops his hand. “There’s nothing I can do to persuade you.”

“Oh, I never said that.”

Her stare’s driving him crazy and for the first time Sherlock can sympathise with all the people he makes uncomfortable. It would be bearable if he knew what it meant. “What do you want?”

“You’re no stranger to obsession – tell me how it usually works.”

 

Molly stands and circles the table, straddling Sherlock’s lap. She leans closer, lips almost touching his ear. “What if I told you a story? A story about a girl who hated the sea. The water in general, really. She used to walk along the shoreline and collect the drowned animals that washed up. At school they said she was weird.”

Sherlock’s definitely listening now. The soft words distract him from Molly’s touches, her hands roaming over him shoved to the back of his mind.

“There was a boy, Carl Powers. And he was cute and popular and athletic, and she liked him. You see she hadn’t realised yet how boring everyone is, how predictable. But when Carl found out he laughed and laughed and laughed. He called her a freak.”

Sherlock feels a pang of something in his gut but he’s not sure what.

“So she cried until she felt like she would drown in her tears, and then she sat down to think. What could this girl do to avenge herself? She had to get rid of him – permanently. She had to teach everyone she was not to be trifled with.”

The sounds of the restaurant are very far away, the room silent as Molly pauses. Sherlock finds himself wishing she wouldn’t stop.

“The girl comes up with a plan so clever, so simple, it stuns her. She’s frightened by how easy it is to kill a person. It seems like such a monumental task and it’s not, and she starts to realise everyone else is ordinary if they think killing someone’s impossible. She slips the poison into his medication and Carl gets on the bus to London.”

“And dies.” Sherlock whispers breathily.

“And dies. Perfect.”

“You took the shoes.”

“Yes. A trophy, not usually my style, but it seemed important to remove any evidence.”

“You only proved there was evidence to remove.”

“To you, my darling Sherlock. No one else noticed. That’s what makes you so special.”

“Was any of that story true?”

“I killed Carl Powers. I took his shoes.” She smirks.

“And the rest was fantasy.”

“Maybe – maybe not. Do you think I’d give it up that easy, Sherlock?” Molly scoffs, “It took me five years to give you my real name.”

“You still haven’t actually given it to me.”

She kisses him, lips insistent. He’s still reeling from the almost-revelation of her fairy tale. He kisses her back because it costs him nothing.

“Oh Sherly, the look on your face! It was worth the wait.” She traces a fingertip over his brow.

She punctuates it with a flick of her hips and Sherlock hisses at the friction, hands darting to her waist automatically – though whether to push her away or hold her closer he hasn’t decided yet.

She grinds against him, voice low. “What Richard said to you on the roof was true, Sherlock. You’re not boring. You’re not an angel. You’re me.”

“I’m you?” he repeats it, “I seriously doubt that.”

Molly’s hand cracks across his face. “Focus! You’re still not getting it.”

Sherlock feels a rush of anger at being scolded like an ignorant pupil. He growls and grabs her wrists. “I’m you?”

“That’s right – you’re willing to do anything to win and the result doesn’t matter as soon as it’s achieved.”

“Not true.”

“Isn’t it? What’s the longest you can go between cases, Sherlock? An hour? Two?”

Sherlock’s grip is increasingly painfully but Molly says nothing, chest heaving as she stares down at him. He’s looking at her pole-axed and Molly knows he gets it. Her mouth curves up like a crocodile.

 

Their eyes lock together as his shoulders sag, and he sees her. Really sees her, more than the superficial read he’s made of everyone he’s ever met. More than he thought he saw Moriarty when it was Jim. Her words ring in his ears. He’s her, she’s him, they’re not ordinary. They’re the same. He sees her smile and he knows it’s true, and his world tips on its axis.

She’s not the villain. They exist outside good and evil, they always have. He was right when he told John he wasn’t a hero, that caring wasn’t something he wasted time on, but it’s not until this moment he sees he’s always been on a parallel with ‘Moriarty’ that goes way beyond both being clever. He’s traded in human lives just as surely as Molly. A long time ago he made a choice to solve trouble and she decided to cause it, but it could have gone either way. Neither of them has a cause, neither of them really believes in their side. Molly’s organisation is as dispensable to her as Sherlock’s colleagues to him: it is only the brainwork that matters.

“I think Sergeant Donovan was right about me, in her own way.”

“Fiiiiiinally.” Molly purrs, “There’s the Sherlock I love.”

Sherlock has spent his whole life shining lights into dark places and never met someone as deep and shadowy as her. She smiles and he wonders how he ever could have believed the good girl act.

“What should I call you? It seems stupid to continue with Molly. You couldn’t be further from her personality-wise. But you’re not Moriarty either.”

“There’s no chance of getting my real name, Sherlock. Call me what you like.”

“How about Venus?”

“Like the goddess, Sherly-bird? I’m flattered.”

“I meant as in flytrap.”

She doesn’t comment. He knows she’ll take it as a compliment and maybe it is.

“What now?”

“Now we call Sebastian back in here and finish dinner. Problem?”

He kisses her, hand cupping the back of her head as her palms flatten against his chest. Sherlock pulls away, leaving her breathless. “None at all.”


End file.
